


Hunting Expedition

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [19]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Thor Movies, Alternate Universe - what if, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Occasionally POV Third Person Omniscient, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Thor is tired of hunting the same, easy game. Wanting a worthier challenge and believing that his power will suffice, he goes to Jötunheim to hunt frost giants. With him are his friends – the Warriors Three and Sif – and of course Loki his younger brother. When they arrive there, however….Well, now, who are the hunters and who are the hunted? And when the game is caught, what then?(Set about 300 years before the events of the first Thor film. All Marvel-verse, flavoured with my headcanon and a smattering of Norse lore.)
Relationships: Laufey (Marvel) & Loki (Marvel), Loki & The Warriors Three, Loki & Thor (Marvel), Thor & The Warriors Three
Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089204
Comments: 21
Kudos: 179
Collections: Finished111





	Hunting Expedition

**Author's Note:**

> In here, Thor is about 1,200 and Loki is about 1,000 in Asgardian standard, which are respectively 15ish and 13ish in modern-age human standard. In Jötunheimi standard, however, they are much younger, approximately 9 and 8 years old. And the “candlemark” is a time measurement akin to an hour, although the amount of that hour may be highly different from ours.
> 
> Started on: 23rd July 2019 at 10:51 AM  
> Finished on: 8th June 2020 at 09:37 PM

The camp, which is usually lively with the success of the hunt, feels awkward this evening, tinged with sullenness. The bounty heaped on the edge of the campsite, ready to be carried home for the upcoming Victory Day festival, seems to mean nothing to those gathered round the campfire.

Well, if one looked closely, the reason – the source – of the sullen awkwardness would be apparent.

Thor, first son of Odin King of Asgard and Frigga the Queen-Consort, a young man of nearly a thousand and two hundred years, sits silent and gloomsome a little apart from his companions. He sends a glare to the pile of fresh, freshly cleaned kills every so often. And his countenance, which is usually bright with joviality and excitement, now sports a flat look that, for this particular prince, signifies utter boredom mixed with considerable anger. An odd and rare appearance, for certain, for this particular prince, if not totally unheard of.

And then, as in those other occurrences, the camp suddenly gets to know just why he has been so highly dissatisfied with their bountiful endeavour.

“These woods have grown _pathetic_. I need a worthier challenge. The servants can always hunt these beasts and supply the kitchens with their meat. This game is not adequate for the princes of the realm.”

On the outburst, Loki Odinson, barely a thousand years old and long considered “the baby” amongst this group, looks up briefly from the tome he has been reading. He stares impassively at his elder brother, then, with his eyes glued once more on the pages of his book, he drawls, “Shall we go mortal-hunting, then? Father will surely approve of it.”

Thor’s flat countenance breaks into a mighty scowl, aimed squarely at the slip of a boy he sometimes has the displeasure of naming as his brother. “Do not cheek me, Loki,” he orders impatiently. “Your scorching humour is unwelcome right now.”

“When is it ever?” Fandral, who is scant decades older than Thor but oftentimes considered the second youngest in the group of friends, snickers under his breath. Not as inaudibly as he would like, however, and Thor soon transfers the glare from the second Odinson to him.

“Take care, friend; he is still your prince,” comes the rumbling rebuke. And Fandral, seated closest to the campfire, dutifully falls silent and bows his head with a murmured apology – to Thor. Not to Loki; but rarely would anyone apologise to the clever, secretive, wily younger prince cursed with so sharp a tongue, anyway.

The camp grows even more awkward after the short exchange of explosive – if rather quiet – words. It feels even more so, when compared to the indifferent and peaceful ambiance of the nature all round them. But regardless, the pair of brothers, different as day to night and not only in looks, seem content to occupy themselves with their own pursuits. It leaves their four companions floundering in the silence, glancing at each other and fidgetting.

The subsequent dinner, prepared by Volstagg and aided in part by an absent-minded Loki, does not improve Thor’s mood any. Well, the aggrevated, petulant prince perks up a little when his younger brother plays a few cheerful pieces on a reed flute afterwards, with vocal accompaniment contributed by Sif and Fandral. But still, when the time comes to bed down before his turn in the night-watch, slumber is unable to claim him. He ends up joining Hogun during the older male’s turn, and does not sleep until the sun kisses the horizon.

Given the collective deterioration of the company’s mood overnight, the victorious hunters for once slip quietly back into Gladsheim in the morning. Some dirty looks are cast towards Loki behind Thor’s back during the journey home. Mostly by Fandral and Sif; and one time by Volstagg, when Thor asks “the Baby” what the latter is always reading, all while he does not seem to have heard Volstagg asking him a question earlier. But, in this case, it is a comforting bit of normalcy in an otherwise bizarre and upsetting experience… at least for everyone who is not Loki. After all, the younger prince is always up to some trick, in the opinion of Fandral, Sif, Hogun and Volstagg, as well as many others in the court. The boy may have laid a spell on his elder brother, for fun or in revenge to being dragged into this hunt by the said elder brother. So the ire is not misplaced, seen this way, to them.

The miserable company deposits their bounty in the palace’s kitchens once they arrive, then quickly disperses to their own haunts and homes. Without the usual raucous cheer, and without a definite plan to celebrate their success with the usual tavern-hopping, either.

Loki himself makes a speedy beeline to his quarters once the hunting party breaks up. He is eager to escape the suspicious and angry stares and be alone to luxuriate in a warm bath, before pouring over his interrupted read to his heart’s content. His king-father and queen-mother are busy with their duties, and his lord-brother is presumably sulking the day away in the training grounds. So, thinking he is going to be undisturbed for the foreseeable future, he prepares himself for a day of quiet indolence, accompanied by a decanter of iced wine and a plateful of finger food.

He should have prepared quick, strong, sure arguments against foolhardy ventures instead.

Thor’s loud invasion of his rooms, barely three candlemarks hence, sounds and feels like the stampeed of an angry bilgesnipe bull. “Do not destroy my quarters” seems to be a prudent warning to give, when from the living-room there comes a crash of wooden furniture and a thumping cascade of heavy tomes. So he calls out just that, from the relative safety of his bedchamber.

But the bilgesnipe in æsir form bursts _into_ the said bedchamber instead….

Unlike the older ás’ usual modus operandi, however, Thor is not bringing Loki’s outdoor gear with him, to force on his younger brother, before he drags the latter back into the wilds amidst some very sharp words and complaints from “the Baby.” Instead, he brings with him a tome nearly as large as the one yet in Loki’s grip, albeit much older and dusty. “I have found where we should go next!” he declares, then, waving the tome about.

Spying the silver-lettered title embossed on the handsome blue leather cover of the book, Loki’s heart sinks.

**The Children of Ýmir: A Compendium  
By Voðen Bestla-childe**

The younger ás has ever seen it only _once_ , at a glimpse at that, _sitting on the very, very restricted bookshelf at the back corner of their king-father’s private study_. “Now what are you getting me into, brother?” he moans, burying his face in the open pages of the tome in his hands. He has always been curious of the forbidden book still being waved about by his excitable brother, but until now he has not been curious – _or suicidal_ – enough to defy Odin their king-father for the sake of a manuscript.

And, as the answer: “The librarians said this phrase,” a huge, strong fist thumps against the book-cover on the title, “refers to the _frost giants_.” Thor’s voice lowers to a loud hiss at the end.

Loki’s head, already peeking up from his temporary sanctuary when Thor abuses the forbidden book, shoots up hearing the explanation, and so do his eyebrows. “The _librarians_?” he repeats incredulously. “Since when do you suffer the ‘silence and flatness’ of any library, brother?”

“Since I have been driven mad by boredom, apparently,” comes the quick, dry retort, even as the elder brother gives the younger one a mock glare, with a sliver of real hurt lurking somewhere in the blue depths. “You know perfectly wel that I am neither illiterate nor lacking in wit, silly one.”

Loki shakes his head. “You will return that tome whence it came if you are as you claim, brother,” he retorts. “I am not in the mood of suffering Father’s punishment and Mother’s disappointment. Not after suffering your trip-long gloomsome mood. Which, I might add, I have just escaped this morning.”

Huffing and glowering with more heat than before, Thor invites himself to sit on the bed. And, as he has always done while sharing a bed with his younger brother, the young man quickly situates himself at Loki’s side, pressed against the headboard and a line of fluffy pillows, nestled against the smaller ás. “You eyed this book with longing when we were called to Father’s private study that time,” he accuses. “Do not deny it. You know I am not forgetful, nor am I ignorant about my surroundings.”

“Only some of the times,” the younger brother concedes, earning himself a half-affectionate, half-exasperated set of knuckles on his temple for his cheek.

“In any case,” the elder brother forcefully returns the conversation to the topic he clearly favours, “I have found where we are going in our next trip.”

Loki outright blanches on that proclamation, and finds all the breath knocked out of him in one forceful gasp. Horrified and disbelieving, he stares wide-eyed at Thor.

A _cheerful_ , brimming-in-confidence Thor.

“And you called yourself _intelligent_ ,” he manages to say, after several deep breaths, in an involuntarily, embarrassingly high-pitched voice.

Thor gives the frazzled and perturbed younger ás an exasperated glare, for all the effort. And, _worse_ , he quickly begins to outline the upcoming trip.

Sadly, Loki cannot report Thor’s dangerous idea to their parents. Because, again out of the usual, Thor has the both of them pour over the stolen tome right away, _in detail_. If only it would not end up with either or both of them killed or worse, Loki would relish such a rare instance of studious siblinghood camaraderie coming from his elder brother. _However_ , with the situation as it is, and with the topic as revolting as this one is….

In any case, candlemarks hence, the younger ás finds himself led – as if some cattle to the slaughter – to the living quarters of the older one. With no chance to flee, and with his head choke-full with unwanted but possibly quite necessary information about the jötnar, _the disgusting monsters of Jötunheim_.

And barely a candlemark after that, Thor and his friends plus one tagalong are gathered just outside of Gladsheim proper, beside a pair of very old, very gnarly trees. They are all bundled for extremely cold climate, but look as though they were out for a city jaunt to anyone else, the latter courtesy of Loki’s seiðr-work. But while Thor is brimming with confidence and affection for “the Baby,” Sif and Hogun give the younger ás a doubtful, mistrustful look. They even urge the Crown Prince to revisit his decision to go to Jötunheim.

To no avail, obviously. Because Thor, acting as though he could not hear the complaints, castigations on their destination and offers to go anywhere but there, bids his younger brother to open the way. He is the first to eagerly step through the shimmering portal that gradually becomes visible afterwards, at that.

And then, all words – and indeed, all thoughts – fall silent, as four of the six members of the company get busy trying to warm themselves. All of them, though, are awed and rather daunted by the wild forest of _giant_ trees they have just landed amidst.

“A wretched place, indeed,” Sif grumbles after a while, shivering, her teeth chattering, her face tight, her eyes wild.

“A good place for a hunt!” Thor booms excitedly, trying to cheer her up and raise the mood of the company.

Hogun gives him a wry look and dryly adds, “And the game will be scared off by your voice, if you’d pardon me saying so, my prince.”

He gets a jovial slap on the shoulder and a good-natured, boyish grin for that remark from the said prince.

And then Loki pipes in in an even dryer tone, “It is nearly impossible to hunt anything in here, while we are shorter than even the _undergrowth_. And we did not even bring our horses to try to get around that problem.”

Fandral snorts. “Drop our spirit, would you?” he nudges at “the Baby” with an elbow, before Thor can say or do anything in response. “Why didn’t you mention this before, eh?”

“Thor dragged me about like a doll, that is why,” is the answer, dryest of all in tone, as the second prince, the shortest and slimmest of all in the company, moves away to inspect the nearest bush. “The book said nothing about giant undergrowth, too. And it is not like I have ever come here before this.”

He inspects yet another bush, as well as the permafrost beneath it, unheeding of the murmured argument that soon breaks upon his elder brother and the latter’s friends. His attention only returns to them when the argument seems to have taken its course and spent itself.

But then, the arguers are nowhere to be found.

Chill suffuses him, like never before.

“Thor? Volstagg? Fandral? Hogun? Sif? Where are you? Do not jest about this!” he calls, in the quietest but firmest tone he can manage. His eyes roam about wildly, searching for any hint of his companions.

He repeats the call and listens closely afterwards, when his sight finds no trace of Asgardian physique, steel or clothing anywhere nearby. But what his ears catch is only silence.

Eerie silence, as if the wilderness knows that a dangerous predator is nearby.

And, it seems, the predator is _watching him closely_.

He shivers. Now he searches for a tree to scale or a hole to hide in, to avoid whatever it is that is _hunting him_.

There is no hole to be seen, however, the undergrowth is too thorny to climb under, and the trunk of the surrounding trees are mostly covered by sleek ice.

Before he can make an attempt to scale a tree anyway, a huge, cold something lands on his shoulder, covering it and his upper arm. And before he can scream, he is bodily lifted _up high_ into… a pair of arms?

His respectable height of nearly six feet is _nothing_ compared to his captor.

A jötun. What else?

And the jötun… _speaks_ … _gently_ … _politely_ … in a _low_ , rumbly voice, “Where might you be going, little one? Did you know that it is dangerous to roam alone here, especially for you?”

Loki is petrified. Wide-eyed, he stares into the frost giant’s… _mellow?_ … red eyes, which look back at him with _intelligence_ , _knowledge_ and _dignity_. This view, this _personality_ , is quite _unlike_ the beasts that Asgardians portray the jötnar to be. And those words….

The hapless captive musters all his will to open his mouth and push words out of his dry, dry throat, even as his heart pounds wildly. “Let me go, please.”

“And where might you be going, after that?” the jötun _hums_ , as it begins to walk – _on silent, silent feet_.

Loki feels as though he were a little child, _cradled_ in such huge arms that _do not_ bite him with chill, and spoken to so softly. But he knows _very well_ that he is in enemy territory right now, that his companions are missing, that _none_ of them has notified anybody back home about this impulsive excursion of Thor’s, so he sets aside any feeling of false safety and demands more firmly, “Let me go, please.”

The giant shushes him, in response.

And Loki falls silent, although it is more because he has just heard something from afar, like the faint echo of Thor’s booming voice. If they are going towards where Thor has wandered to….

But, as they indeed come upon his elder brother – _and their companions in this doomed venture_ – moments after, he freezes _once more_ instead of attempting to free himself.

Thor and his stupid friends are hunting, and the thing that they are hunting is a _frost giant_ , as Thor promised.

Only, this frost giant, it looks rather like _Laufey_ from the few wartime sketches that are available in the palace’s library, down to the scars.

_Laufey_. The _King_ of Jötunheim.

King of beasts, people say. But still _a king_. Of _very powerful people_ , at that. And _the Crown Prince of Asgard_ is _hunting_ him.

` _No, no, not hunting him,_ ` the idiot’s younger brother realises, as he follows the pattern of the Asgardians stumbling along the undergrowth and Laufey leaping agilely over the obstacles like a cheerful fawn, _leading them along_. ` _He is hunting **them**._`

He cannot warn them, unfortunately. His captor is positioned too removed from the circles that Laufey is leading the “hunting party” around. Thor will never hear him from such a distance, especially while _that oaf_ is bellowing with such fervour.

And then, the six “hunters” are caught by “the game,” with just one wave of a hand.

“Let me go!” The second prince of Asgard _hates_ how his voice _squeaks_ , loud in the sudden, stunned silence of the other Asgardians. ` _I have to reach them. I can tear a portal back home from here. I must–._ `

His thoughts stutter to a _third_ halt as _Laufey_ leaps with the same alacrity _towards him_.

And plucks him from his previous captor’s arms.

And cradles him like a baby, even accompanied by some _cooing_.

And snuggles him close like to a long-separated, cherished young child.

“Let me go,” he manages, at last, in a feeble voice that he hates more than the previous squeak.

“Not now,” is the answer, while _Laufey_ is _rocking him gently from side to side_.

“You are… you are… holding me captive!” Loki persists, nonetheless.

But the Jötun King denies it. So the beleaguered, bewildered Asgardian prince tries a different path.

“You hold no right over me!”

“Of course I do,” is the _shocking_ return, retorted absent-mindedly as the brute is inspecting Thor and company, as though a hunter looking over the game that he had just downed.

“You – _no_ – what right? I did nothing!”

He gets a gentle poke on the tip of his nose for that, from a _huge_ finger ending on a black-nailed tip.

But he stays silent afterwards _not_ because that poke, although it could have driven the finger into his head.

No. It is because, calmly and matter-of-factly, _the frost giant_ , _the King of Jötunheim_ , proclaims for all to hear in the same light, familiar tone, but with solemn eyes only on him, “I carried and birthed you, little squeaker. I lost you once. I am never going to lose you again if I can help it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ☺ Did you like it? Feel free to leave some comments, criticisms, ideas, etc. I love hearing from you.  
> Rey


End file.
